


Fabric Of Your Flesh

by HollowpointHeart



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Biting, Dirty Talk, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 11:16:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14424249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowpointHeart/pseuds/HollowpointHeart
Summary: "I'll tell you about the owl if you tell me a secret.""What?""A secret for a secret."





	Fabric Of Your Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this since early december and i'm bringing it out now to tide some of you (read: dez) over until i finish the nightmare hell week of finals and get back to Home Is Where The Heart Is

The same day Devi lets Jimmy run the parlor himself is the same day the worst storm of the year blows in the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Okay, so that’s an exaggeration, probably, but the man is pretty in a way most customers in the shop aren’t, pushing rain slick hair off his forehead.

“Hello,” the man says, and Jimmy would probably be able to make a nice musical metaphor about his voice if he listened to something other than melodic screaming. The man’s eyes are darting and uncertain, restless as his fingers, and Jimmy forces down a smirk. Devi tells him it’s rude to laugh at new customers, but their nervousness is hilarious. Usually. On this man it’s almost cute. Jimmy’s lips curl anyway.

“Hey,” Jimmy says. “You got an appointment?”

He leans on the counter, resting his chin on his hand and peers up at the man. He looks like he might be slim, sort of lanky, under his oversized jacket, but something about the curve of his jaw speaks at a hint of softness. Still, his fingers are long and thin, and Jimmy wants to…

Well, do something that would have him cleaning the entire place top to bottom while Devi yells at him about health code violations. 

“Ah, yes,” the man says. His cheeks are pink, and Jimmy wonders if he’s come on too strong before deciding that it’s probably the weather’s fault. “Edgar Vargas. I emailed a picture of a design last week. Are you Jimmy?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, forgetting for a moment his mission to flirt the pants off _Edgar_. He’d had to beg Devi for days to let him do this design after reading her emails over her shoulder, not to mention promise to be her bitch for about a month, but goddamn would it be worth it for this design. The original drawing had been a bit wobbly and very uneven, but under Devi’s pen, the owl had become an ethereal apex predator. The lines are too straight and geometric to be properly realistic, but the amount of detail is astounding. Tiny, hyper real rubies make up the eyes, and a nebula drips from the wings and tail feathers. Jimmy knows he can do the masterpiece justice, he’s been Devi’s apprentice for years, but the prospect is terrifying and exhilarating in equal parts. 

“Alright.” Edgar seems a little more relaxed. “Devi said it would take a few weeks?” He trails off into a question.

“Yeah,” Jimmy repeats, slipping into professionalism like an old jacket. “Today we’re just going to be doing the outlines, but first I’ll need to double check some things with you. Oh, and you need to fill out this form.”

Jimmy pulls out a clipboard and safety form with a flourish. Edgar takes them and plucks a pen from the jar on the counter. They go over a few little things, the size of the feet, the ripple of the nebula, is Edgar sure he wants the wings to stretch onto his arms? The remaining tension seems to drain out of Edgar as they chat, and Jimmy feels strangely proud.

“Alright,” Jimmy says when Edgar hands him the completed form, everything perfectly in order. “Shirt off, lay down at that station, and I’ll quick print out a stencil.” He turns on his heel, only to finish the turn as Edgar makes a small choking sound.

“What?” Jimmy asks incredulously. Edgar fiddles with the hems of his coat sleeves and stares in apparent fascination at a spot near his boot. “I can’t tattoo you with your shirt on, unless you want a scribbly nightmare.” He gives Edgar a once over. “You could probably pull it off, but I really want to do that owl.”

“You’re just very cavalier,” Edgar says stiffly.

“I should fucking hope so,” Jimmy says, and a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Devi tells him off for swearing in front of a customer. Too late now. “I’ve seen more tits than I ever planned on. You won’t phase me.”

This, Jimmy finds out upon turning around with the sheet of translucent paper and blue ink, is a load of horse shit. He’d been right about Edgar being thin, rib cage flaring as he pulls his shirt over his head, but not overly fit. His hips look soft, a little flare that Jimmy wants to sink his teeth into. He pulls his eyes away as the shirt joins a flannel and the jacket on a chair and tries to summon some sense of professionalism.

“Right,” Jimmy says, and if there’s any sign of his crisis in his voice, Edgar is polite enough not to mention it. “Lay down on your stomach, and I’ll get set up.”

The process of setting up soothes Jimmy’s nerves, the weight of the machine a comfort in his hand. They return though, the second he touches Edgar’s skin, smoothing gel over his back, and feels heat burning even through the rubber glove. He grits his teeth. Beautiful man or not, he’s a fucking professional, and he will not lose his dream job because he can’t keep it in his pants. There’s a chance he presses on the stencil with more force than strictly necessary. 

Edgar makes a half vocalized yelp at the first brush of of the needle against his skin, and Jimmy pulls back quickly. “You good?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Edgar rolls his shoulder. “Warn me next time, okay?”

“My bad,” Jimmy says, and loses himself in the buzz of the machine. His machine, he thinks. After four years, he’s finally a proper tattoo artist. Dad would be so pissed.

“So why’d you pick the owl?” Jimmy asks after about ten minutes. He’s terrible at keeping quiet, but Devi tells him he needs to get better at making customers comfortable. Apparently he has not improved, because Edgar tenses under the needle, and Jimmy barely corrects for the movement.

“Sorry,” Jimmy says.

“No, it’s okay,” Edgar says, and why, oh why, is Jimmy getting turned on over being able to feel his voice in his hand? Maybe lightning will tear through the ceiling and put him out of his misery.

“Personal?” Jimmy asks. Edgar clearly isn’t a tattoo junkie, and a lot of people like him get sappy tattoos for loved ones. Just last week he tattooed a baby’s footprint on a woman’s chest which was fine, he guessed. Not really what he’d planned on doing with his life, but the customer is always right and all that shit.

“Yeah,” Edgar says and doesn’t elaborate. They lapse back into silence.

Jimmy loses track of time, working his way down the swooping wings and inking angular feathers over Edgar’s tricep. The rain drums on the room and mixes with the hum of the tattoo machine in a hypnotic daze, and for a moment Jimmy thinks Edgar’s managed to fall asleep, which would be impressive as all fuck really.

“I’ll tell you about the owl if you tell me a secret,” Edgar says, and if Jimmy were a less disciplined man, he would’ve dropped the machine.

“What?”

“A secret for a secret.” Edgar peers over his shoulder the best he can. His glasses are off and he’s squinting slightly. Jimmy’s mouth goes dry.

“Okay.” He’s not sure why he agrees. Edgar is a perfect stranger, and Jimmy hasn’t even told Devi more than the bare minimum about himself. Maybe that’s the appeal. Spill his guts to a stranger, and after this tattoo, Edgar leaves forever, and then who will he tell Jimmy’s secrets to?

“My mother committed suicide the day after I turned eighteen.” Edgar’s voice is blank, but the muscles in his back roll and shift, trying to shake off a weight. “She liked owls, and last week was the ten year anniversary.”

The rain feels more appropriate now, and Jimmy feels like he should apologize. That’s what people do when someone tells them something like that, right? They say they’re sorry, even though Jimmy’s not sure what they’re sorry for. Words stick in his throat. He puts the needle back to skin. Edgar’s muscles relax.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been loved,” Jimmy blurts after several minutes. He didn’t mean to, he hadn’t even thought it was true until the words left his mouth, but they feel right, if not distantly sad. No one’s ever loved him, and part of him doubts he’s ever loved anyone. There might’ve been a time he loved his parents, before the abuse started. Maybe he loves Devi. He cares about her more than anyone else, probably, thinks of her as a sister of sorts, even if she’s blunt and rude and swears more than him.

Edgar doesn’t say anything, but he reaches back and brushes his fingers over Jimmy’s knee. Neither of them speak until Jimmy shuts off the tattoo machine and wipes the last of the ink and blood off Edgar’s back.

“You’re all set,” Jimmy says softly. If someone had asked him, he could never explain why, but he offers Edgar a hand to help him up. He’s not a fan of touch, especially from strangers, but now he relishes the brief contact, files it away in a stupidly sentimental part of his brain next to Edgar’s secret. Edgar’s hand is soft and warm, and Jimmy imagines him behind a desk, typing at a computer or reading a novel in a squashy armchair.

He rings Edgar up while he dresses, determinedly not looking at him. There’s the out of body sense of watching someone else give instructions on how to care for his tattoos, accepting the cash, and promising to see him next week.

The shop feels empty when he leaves.

***

It comes to be a habit, trading secrets. Sometimes they talk about other things, favorite movies or books, stories from high school, jobs. Jimmy finds out Edgar is a high school teacher and has a cat named Frida Kahlo. In turn, Jimmy tells him about working for Devi and how he’s always wanted a pet snake but can’t afford it. They disagree spectacularly over music, but Jimmy’s willing to overlook it because Edgar understands his movie references. Still, the secrets become his favorite part of their sessions, even though he’s terrified in the moments leading up to them.

“My dad drank himself to death when I was five,” Edgar says.

“My mom pushed me down the stairs when I was six.”

***

“Sometimes I want to kill.”

“Sometimes I want to die.”

Jimmy laughs darkly. “We’re perfect for each other.”

***

“I’m gay.”

“So am I.”

***

“My dad verbally abused me so my mom would focus on me more than him.”

Edgar brushes the back of his hand over Jimmy’s knee. He’s warm. He’s always so warm. “Everyone I’ve ever loved leaves me or dies, and it terrifies me.”

***

“HGTV is my guilty pleasure.”

Jimmy snorts. “Seriously?”

“I never said they had to be profound secrets.”

“Fine,” Jimmy sighs. “I stress bake, and I’ve gotten pretty good at decorating cakes.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Shut up.”

***

“I think you’re beautiful.” Jimmy says the words so softly he thinks Edgar won’t be able to hear them over the buzz of the machine. It continues to be the only sound for several more minutes.

Edgar sighs, and Jimmy wants to run and barricade himself in the bathroom until Devi comes back tomorrow morning. He shouldn’t have said anything, should’ve kept his mouth shut, jesus fucking christ, he always ruins everything. At least this is their last session, he won’t have to worry about looking Edgar in the eye again, fuck, he probably thinks he’s disgusting

“I want to kiss you.”

“What.”

“I want to kiss you,” Edgar repeats, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, like he hasn’t knocked all the air out of Jimmy’s lungs. He focuses on the edge of the galaxy he’s working on. Once he finishes, they’ll be done. If the owl had been beautiful on paper, it’s stunning on Edgar’s skin. The wings on his shoulders and arms give the illusion of movement, and those ruby eyes judge Jimmy with a fixed glint. Every breath makes the nebula ripple and shift under Jimmy’s hands.

“Why?” Jimmy asks. He turns off the machine but otherwise doesn’t move. Edgar rests his head on his crossed arms but also stays put.

“Because I want to,” Edgar says simply. “Because you’re talented and funny. Because you rant about music I don’t understand and you bake when you’re stressed. And because you’re beautiful.”

Jimmy sets down the tattoo machine. Inhales. Takes off his gloves. Exhales. Presses the gauze to the small of Edgar’s back. Inhales again. His skin feels too tight.

“I- hold still,” Jimmy says, and god, he hasn’t been scared like this in years, a middle schooler trying to work up the nerve to take a pretty girl’s hand. There’s a spot where the owl’s ears just barely rise onto Edgar’s neck, framing the ridges of his spine, and Jimmy wants to trace them with his tongue. For now, he settles for brushing his lips over one of them.

Edgar doesn’t make a sound, just hitches on a breath, and Jimmy pulls back. He leans back in his chair, heart going a million miles and hour, certain he’s fucked up, misread the signs, but before the apology can trip its way out of his mouth, Edgar sits up and stares at him in a way that sets Jimmy’s whole body on fire. Their eyes are almost level and there’s too much space between them.

“Kiss me like you mean it,” Edgar says, and Jimmy drags him onto his chair and crushes their mouths together. It’s fumbling and wild, and their teeth knock together painfully, but the spicy sweet taste of Edgar’s tongue tracing over his teeth is worth it. He fists one hand in Edgar’s hair, drunk on the sound he makes, and leaves finger shaped bruises on his thigh with the other. The hand Edgar planted on Jimmy’s chest pins him to the back of his chair, and everything in Jimmy goes molten. He kisses Edgar with something that feels almost like fury, because Edgar is kind and good and everything Jimmy isn’t, and he wants to _ruin_ him.

“Not that good,” Edgar gasps, and Jimmy doesn’t even care that he said some of that outloud. He licks the words out of Edgar’s mouth.

“Shut up.”

Jimmy releases Edgar’s hair and cups his jaw, and fuck, there’s something so goddamn filthy about feeling his mouth moving like that, working for it just as hard as Jimmy is. Hands dance along his skin and over clothes, never lingering for long but blistering his skin anyway. Edgar sucks on Jimmy’s tongue and drinks the pathetic whimper out of him like it’s fucking wine, and Jimmy can’t quite roll his hips up like this but it doesn’t stop him from trying.

Edgar pulls back, gasping, and Jimmy licks up one of the long lines of his throat, reveling in the grinding moan he gets in response. He nips at a spot under Edgar’s ear, and he lets out another noise Jimmy feels in his teeth. There’s so much exposed skin, he can’t stop touching, mapping the healing tattoo and tracing his nails down smooth, smooth skin. Edgar grinds his hips down, and Jimmy moans helplessly against his shoulder.

“Fuck, fuck, Edgar,” Jimmy gasps and grabs Edgar’s shoulders. “We can’t, not here, Devi will actually kill me.”

It seems to take an enormous amount of self control for Edgar to pull more than an inch away from Jimmy. “Okay.” He takes a deep breath and makes a frustrated noise. “I’m a half hour away-”

“I’m five,” Jimmy says, then slumps in his chair and groans. “I gotta clean up first of Devi still might kill me. Shit.”

“I could help?” Edgar climbs off him, and his dick is still way to close to Jimmy’s face for him to think properly. He stands up quickly.

“No,” Jimmy shakes his head and runs his hands through his hair. It feels wilder than usual. “It’s all stuff with the machine. Just get dressed before I do something really stupid.”

Edgar does, and Jimmy finishes cleaning in record time. As he’s pulling on his jacket, a miserable thrift shop find held together by safety pins and cobalt duct tape, Edgar presses against him from behind and slides his hands under Jimmy’s shirt. Jimmy makes a truly embarrassing noise and presses back against Edgar.

“You want me to ride with you or follow?” Edgar asks, lips brushing the shell of Jimmy’s ear. He lets out a ragged breath.

“Follow,” he chokes out. “Definitely follow.” As much as he’d love to fuck Edgar as soon as possible, Jimmy’s seen his car, and it looks about one pothole away from becoming scrap metal. Jimmy’s car is scrap metal.

They get stalled on the way out as what was supposed to be a farewell peck turns into Edgar almost bending Jimmy in half with the force of it all, holding him up like that one World War Two photograph. All Jimmy can do is fist both hands in Edgar’s coat and take everything he’s being given. When they part, it’s only because the November wind is too cold for Jimmy’s pathetic jacket, and he has to hobble to his car as quickly as possible while rock fucking solid.

The light on 28th street blinks to red as Jimmy pulls up to it, because the universe doesn’t love him _that_ much, and he swears. Next to him, his phone chirps the tattoo parlor’s overly cheerful tone.

It’s from Edgar and just says “call me” followed by a string of numbers. Jimmy calls him.

“Texting while driving is dangerous,” Jimmy says when Edgar picks up on the first ring.

“In this case the risk is worth the reward.” Edgar sounds dry, but Jimmy can hear the smile in his voice.

“And what might that be?” The light turns green, and the car’s tires screech.

“I need to know your kinks,” Edgar says, and Jimmy nearly takes out a row of trash cans. Someone in the other lane honks.

“Fucking shit,” Jimmy wheezes. He thinks back to their first meeting when Edgar had gotten flustered over taking his shirt off. Oh how the tables have fucking turned.

“And you need to know some of mine,” Edgar continues as if nothing happened. “I don’t want either of us getting hurt, physically or mentally.”

“Christ, you couldn’t have waited til I wasn’t driving to drop that one?”

“I got impatient.” Edgar sounds entirely unrepentant. “Now spill.”

Jimmy puffs out his cheeks and feels his face burn. Most people he fucks don’t pay attention to shit like this unless someone asks for it, and it’s a system he likes. Though Edgar isn’t most people, and Jimmy desperately wants this to be more than a one time thing. Edgar doesn’t seem like that kind of person, not after everything they’ve shared, but Jimmy’s been wrong before, and the universe seems to have a special kind of hatred for him.

“Jimmy?” Edgar prompts, more gently this time.

“Pain,” Jimmy mutters and resists the urge to throw his phone out the window.

Edgar hums thoughtfully. “You want me to bite you? Scratch you?”

Jimmy whimpers and shifts in his seat. “Yes.”

“Is that all?”

“Choking. Whatever you’re good with, I can take it.”

Edgar’s groan makes Jimmy’s dick ache. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Edgar,”Jimmy whines. “I want- wait _shit_.” He slams on the brakes and makes a turn that would’ve had his ass arrested if there was a cop to see it. Behind him, Edgar barely makes the turn, swearing. A slightly hysterical giggle pushes its way out of Jimmy’s chest.

“I didn't mean that to be quite so literal,” Edgar says, and Jimmy laughs harder. After a second, Edgar joins him. 

“Is there anything else I should know about?” Edgar asks when they’ve calmed down.

“I want you to fuck me.” Jimmy actually remembers his turn this time and pulls into his parking spot. There’s a click as Edgar hangs up and pulls into one of his neighbor’s spots. Before he can even get out of his car properly, he’s being pulled out and pressed against the frigid metal. He moans helplessly and rolls his hips, desperate for any friction.

Edgar grabs his hips and presses them against the car. “I talk a lot. I-”

“Anything you dish out I can take,” Jimmy hisses. He drags Edgar towards the apartment. “Now come on and fuck me.”

Despite only living on the second floor, it takes a long time for them to get up the flight of stairs. Edgar keeps crowding him into dark corners and trying to suck his tonsils out, groping his ass and slotting a thigh between Jimmy’s legs.

“I’m gonna take you apart, Edgar murmurs as Jimmy fumbles with his key, and fuck, he nearly goes limp when Edgar presses him up against the door and _grinds_ , cock rubbing Jimmy’s ass through two layers of pants and underwear, and holy hell if it’s not one of the best things he’s ever felt. The key slips in his hands, he nearly drops it, and he swears as a hand reaches around to palm him. Jesus, anyone could walk by and see them. Jimmy’s dick throbs.

“Exhibitionist,” he gasps. Edgar hums.

Jimmy gets the door open and nearly falls inside, only held up by Edgar’s arm around his waist. In a motion he could never dream of following, Edgar kicks the door closed and spins Jimmy against it. He shoves a thigh between Jimmy’s, but when he tries to grind down, to get some friction against his aching cock, Edgar pins his hips to the door and holds him immobile. The noise that escapes his throat is pathetic, but he doesn’t _care_ , he’s so hard and so desperate after weeks of waiting and wanting. He surges forward for another kiss, but Edgar tucks his chin down and pulls away so only their foreheads rest together.

“Tease.” Jimmy means it to sound accusing, but it comes out as a whine. Edgar laughs softly and nips at his earlobe. Jimmy makes another whining noise and tugs uselessly at Edgar’s jacket.

“I should’ve told you,” Edgar admits, “but this is more fun.” He presses his thigh against Jimmy’s cock, and Jimmy throws his head back against the door. God, he’s barely been touched and it’s already too much and not enough, he wants, needs, _craves_ whatever Edgar will give him.

He pulls Edgar’s hands off his hips and spins them so Edgar’s the one pinned against the wall. There’s an echoing bang that might be the upstairs neighbor telling them to cut it out, but Jimmy can’t be bothered to care when he’s got Edgar’s mouth under his. He sucks Edgar’s lower lip between his teeth and bites before laving his tongue over the hurt. Every hitching moan he pulls out of Edgar goes straight to his cock. Edgar drags Jimmy’s jacket off, and Jimmy spares half a thought to the safety pin that makes a break for freedom, then Edgar’s hands are rucking his shirt up to feel the edges of his ribs.

“Bed,” Jimmy gasps. In the five feet to the bedroom Edgar loses his jacket and his nerd sweater, being careful of the wrappings on his lower back, and Jimmy regrets wearing such damn complicated boots. Once he’s barefoot, Edgar pushes him onto the bed and pulls his shirt off.

“Look at you,” Edgar breathes, drinking in the ink on Jimmy’s torso and arms. Jimmy tosses his head back and preens under the weight of Edgar’s gaze. Fingers trace over one of Jimmy’s newer tattoos, a circular labyrinth over his heart, and Jimmy trembles. “Such a pretty, lost thing.”

“God,” Jimmy chokes out. Edgar hums and drops his head down to press his lips to the center of the maze. The barest scrape of teeth over skin has Jimmy grabbing uselessly at Edgar’s hair and shoulders. Almost gently, Edgar’s mouth moves up from Jimmy’s chest to his neck until he finds a spot that makes Jimmy’s panting breath hitch. He bites, hard.

Jimmy cries out, entire body going rigid, nails digging into Edgar’s back. It hurts, it hurts, his pulse jumps between Edgar’s teeth, and he _loves_ it. Edgar sucks the spot, and Jimmy’s mind goes hazy, all he can do is chant _fuck fuck fuck_ and roll his hips uselessly into empty air. Over and over Edgar bites and sucks at Jimmy’s neck until he’s keening. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, and they haven’t even _done_ anything yet, not really. With fumbling fingers, Jimmy manages to open the drawer of the side table and grab the lube.

“Fuck me.” He taps the lube impatiently against Edgar’s shoulder.

“Demanding,” Edgar admonishes, taking the bottle and clicking open the cap. Jimmy ignores him and wriggles out of his pants. Why the _fuck_ does he wear his jeans so tight?

The first press of Edgar’s finger is cold, and Jimmy’s body tries to twitch away, only to be held still by Edgar’s body pressing between his thighs and a hand on his chest. Blunt nails dig into his skin as Edgar works his finger in, and Jimmy moans. The finger inside him is almost gentle compared to the bruising force of the bites, and a second finger slides in.

“You’re so easy for me,” Edgar croons, finger fucking Jimmy in ernest. The hand on his chest slides up to his throat, squeezing just so, and the moan that pushes its way out of Jimmy’s mouth is high and thin. “Have you been thinking about me? Fucking yourself and wishing it was my cock filling you up?”

Jimmy makes a noise that might generously be interpreted as a yes. Edgar tightens his grip on Jimmy’s throat and crooks his fingers upwards, and if Jimmy could pull in enough air, he would’ve said anything to get Edgar to stop stalling and fuck him. As it is, he makes a breathy, pleading noise and wraps his legs around Edgar’s waist, pulling him closer.

“Did you touch yourself last night?” Edgar releases the pressure on Jimmy’s throat to trail his fingers down his ribs, almost tickling him. 

“Yes,” Jimmy gasps, and Edgar presses a third finger inside him. The stretch just barely burns before giving way to pleasure. “Wanted you the second I saw you, oh fuck-”

“I know,” Edgar says. He’s starting to pant, just a bit. “You’re not very subtle.”

Whatever witty retort Jimmy had flies out of his head when Edgar hits his prostate. Jimmy gives a soft cry and arches into Edgar. Edgar swears and presses his head into the crook of Jimmy’s neck, fingers moving harder and faster.

“Give it to me.” Jimmy runs frantic hands over Edgar’s torso, the raised bumps of healing tattoo and smooth, dark skin of his chest and shoulders. “Give it to me. I can take it.”

Edgar swears again. “Condom?”

“In the drawer.”

As Edgar reaches over, Jimmy fumbles for his belt and presses sloppy, mindless kisses to his neck. His teeth graze over the spot where Edgar’s pulse jumps in his neck, and something clatters off the table. There’s a small crinkling sound, and Edgar starts to pull back with the condom, and Jimmy finally succeeds in shoving his pants and underwear around his thighs and gracelessly gropes for his cock.

“Fuck,” Edgar chokes. His eyes roll back, fluttering shut, and the condom slips out of his hand and lands near Jimmy’s head.

“Fuck yeah, gimme that.” Jimmy pushes Edgar back into a kneeling position and sits up. In the low light, Edgar looks achingly beautiful. His hair sticks up from Jimmy’s hands and his eyes glitter with want behind crooked glasses, cock thick and heavy between lean thighs. Jimmy tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth and rolls it over Edgar’s cock. He feels drunk on the sounds Edgar makes as he slicks him up, rolling his thumb over the head.

Without warning, Edgar grabs Jimmy’s wrists and shoves him back against the mattress with a soft _whump_ , eyes flashing. The surprised noise Jimmy made trails off in a sharp groan as Edgar tightens his grip.

“That’s enough,” Edgar says. Jimmy’s cock twitches. He spreads his legs wider.

“Then fuck me.” He cranes his neck and arches his back. Edgar’s eyes trace down his body, flickering from tattoo to tattoo.

“Ask me nicely.”

Jimmy slumps back against the bed and scowls. “Vargas, if you don’t put your dick in me right fucking now, I swear to _god_ I will cut it off.”

Edgar blinks, then his lips curl into a grin that makes Jimmy’s insides turn to molten lead. “If you insist.”

He doesn’t shove it in as brutally as Jimmy expects, but the glide is long and slow, with just the trace of a stretching burn, and he never wants it to end. A sound like a whimper escapes his throat. When Edgar bottoms out, he holds still, panting into Jimmy’s neck, and Jimmy presses his face into his hair. The coffee and cinnamon smell is mostly hidden by sweat and sex, but it’s still there. He makes another desperate little noise.

“Good?” Edgar asks.

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, and Edgar starts to move. “Yeah, c’mon. Give it to me.”

Edgar gives it to him slow and, dare Jimmy say it, sweet, pressing open mouthed kisses along the bruises he left earlier. It’s good, so good, the press and drag of Edgar rocking into him, but Jimmy wants more. He needs more, he’s burning for it.

Jimmy wraps his legs around Edgar’s waist and meets Edgar’s thrust. The slight change in position just barely brushes his g spot, and he gives a small shout, hands twitching uselessly where Edgar’s still holding him down. Edgar swears against the spot he was worrying with his teeth.

“Harder,” Jimmy gasps. It’s not begging, he doesn’t beg. “I need it, I need more.”

Clucking his tongue, Edgar grinds into his prostate. Jimmy keens. “You didn’t ask nicely.”

“Fuck,” Jimmy says. “Fuck, Edgar, I want you to fuck me harder.”

“Nicely.” Edgar’s teeth are a threatening pressure over the column of his throat.

Jimmy thumps his head on the mattress. “Please, Edgar.”

The noise Edgar makes is low and dangerous and unbearably hot. He tosses one of Jimmy’s legs over his shoulder, pulls almost all the way out, and slams back in. Jimmy shouts, arches off the bed, fists his hands in the sheets by his head. One of Edgar’s arms loops around Jimmy’s waist, supporting him, and his other hand tangles in Jimmy’s hair and pulls. Every thrust hits Jimmy just right, turning every breath into a sharp, cut off moan. 

“Fucking beautiful,” Edgar grunts. He bears down, almost bending Jimmy in half, and Jimmy cries out. There’s something fucking reverent in Edgar’s voice that’s absolutely killing him, making him hotter than the snap of hips and slide of sweat slick skin. 

“Please,” Jimmy says again. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, just that he wants it. He needs it, and Edgar can give it to him.

“You want to come?” Edgar asks. Jimmy thinks he might be mocking, but he doesn’t care. His thighs twitch, heels knocking against Edgar’s back.

“Yes,” Jimmy pants. “Please please- oh _fuck_ ”

Edgar shrugs Jimmy’s leg off his shoulder and pushes his thighs wider apart, as if Jimmy could be any more open to the press of his cock, and curls his fingers around Jimmy’s cock. The precum leaking the slit keeps the drag just the good side of rough as Edgar jerks him, and Jimmy’s cries get louder and higher and more desperate. Edgar’s teeth find a sweet spot just behind his ear and sink in.

Jimmy _wails_ and seizes around Edgar. There’s too much, it’s too much, he can’t take it, it’s not enough

Edgar’s rambling voice in his ear. “That’s it, come on. Let me see you when you come, I want to hear you scream-”

Jimmy comes with a broken cry, locking Edgar in place and painting both their stomachs with streaks of white. The gentle rocking of Edgar’s body milks the orgasm out of him until he’s weak and trembling and barely clinging to his shoulders. Above him, Edgar’s breath comes in harsh, not quite moans as his rhythm in Jimmy’s fucked out body falters. His glasses are sliding down his nose, but even hazy with pleasure, his eyes burn Jimmy.

When Edgar comes, he kisses Jimmy, biting his lower lip so hard the skin feels like it’s going to break, and even that doesn’t stop a soft cry from escaping him. It’s as perfect a sound as Jimmy imagined. Unfortunately, the position Edgar’s relaxed into isn’t exactly the most comfortable, especially for Jimmy’s thighs, and he doesn’t waste time making this known.

“Where’s your trash?” Edgar asks as he takes the condom off. Jimmy twists around to flick the lamp on. There’s a beer bottle on the floor (unbroken, thankfully, that’d be a bitch to clean up), and clothes scattered all over the small space.

“Just drop it off the side, I’ll deal with it later.” Jimmy rolls his eyes at the look Edgar gives him. “Ugh, fine, it’s in the bathroom.”

Edgar gets up, trailing his fingers over Jimmy’s thigh, and heads to the bathroom, and Jimmy does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that he’s ogling Edgar’s ass. He doesn’t think too much of the running water until Edgar comes back with a wet washcloth. Jimmy doesn’t remember having a washcloth out. He doesn’t actually remember owning a washcloth.

“That’d better be warm,” Jimmy says, scooting back against the headboard.

“Relax,” Edgar says, smiling. The washcloth is warm, and his touch is gentle. Honestly, if Jimmy hadn’t just come, he’d be getting hard. As it is, he spreads his legs as subtly as he can. Apparently subtlety is not his strong suit.

“Seriously?” Edgar raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Scared you can’t keep up?” Jimmy teases.

“I’m seven years older than you,” Edgar says and smacks him lightly with the washcloth. His eyes catch on a tattoo on Jimmy’s rib cage. “What’s this one?”

“Hm?” Jimmy lifts his arm and looks at the shape. “Oh, it’s a rose silhouette.”

“Why’s it upside down?”

Jimmy shrugs. “It just felt right, you know?”

“No,” Edgar admits.

“Honestly, most of my tattoos don’t have some deep meaning,” Jimmy says. “I just got them because they felt right. Except this one, this one’s Black Flag.” He points to the four thick bars on his upper bicep. “They’re awesome. Plus their logo’s really easy and cheap.”

“This looks older than the others,” Edgar says. He hesitates just before touching it. “May I?”

“Dude, you just had your dick in my ass, knock yourself out.” Jimmy snorts. “But yeah, that’s the oldest. I got it for my eighteenth birthday.”

Edgar rolls his eyes at the comment and traces the up and down pattern of the lines. Then, slowly, he reaches down the run a finger down the stem of the rose. It was probably supposed to be romantic or some shit, but instead Edgar finds out one of Jimmy’s best kept secrets.

He’s ticklish.

“Nope!” Jimmy yelps and launches himself into the corner, knees against his chest. Edgar bursts out laughing. “Nope, we’re done with that.”

“I never would’ve guessed you’re ticklish,” Edgar says around a laugh.

“Stick around and you’ll find out a lot more about me,” Jimmy says, waggling his eyebrows like a cartoon villain. To his surprise, Edgar’s face falls.

“Oh, um.” He glances away. “I actually have to get going soon.”

Jimmy deflates, heart sinking right through the floor. “Oh.”

“It’s Thursday,” Edgar explains quickly. “I have work tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Jimmy says again. He should’ve known better than to get his hopes up. No way a guy like Edgar likes a guy like him.

“Do you want to get coffee tomorrow?” Edgar asks.

“What?” Is this not a gentle let down?

“Do you want to get coffee after I’m done with work?” Edgar asks. His cheeks are turning pinker by the second. “I understand if you’re busy. I could pick you up if you wanted. Or maybe you’re not interested, and I’m just putting my foot in my mouth.”

“Coffee’s great!” Jimmy blurts. “I love coffee.”

“Great!” Edgar says, then starts laughing. “God, we’re bad at this. I’m pretty sure the date’s supposed to come before sex, not after.”

“The tattooing was sort of a date,” Jimmy says.

“They were not,” Edgar says.

“Kind of,” Jimmy insists. “We spilled our guts to each other and talked and shit.”

“If one person is at work, it’s not a date.”

“Fine, whatever.” Jimmy tries to sound sarcastic, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. “It’s a date.”


End file.
